The Adventure of the Sinkable Siren
by Ad Absurdum
Summary: Strange things happen in seaside towns. Or at least in one of them. Oh, and Mary Watson is mentioned too.


_**A/N**__: Blatant abuse of The Adventure of the 'Gloria Scott', among many other things.  
English still isn't my first language so if there's anything wrong with grammar, vocab etc that you want to point out, please do. Yes, other than run-on sentences.  
**Disclaimer:**__ The characters of Holmes and Watson were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No profit made._

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**The Adventure of the 'Sinkable Siren'**

It was 1890 or perhaps 1898 or, really, any year between the two. I find there is an oddly shaped ink blot in this very spot in my journal.

The month of March with a tremendous effort, it seemed, was turning into April. The cold, wet and influenza-inducing weather of receding winter stubbornly refused to make way for lukewarm, drizzly and cold-inducing aura of approaching spring.

Such a dreadful weather meant patients and while I tended to the hordes of them visiting my surgery, my dear wife decided to journey to her aunt. I briefly wondered how Mary being an orphan had suddenly acquired an aunt but the matter was admittedly beyond me. I considered asking Holmes about this mystery but upon realising he would no doubt give me the most unfavourable explanation he could think of, I abandoned the idea. Inexplicably, my friend was still not as taken with my wife as I myself was or, indeed, as several of my colleagues and acquaintances, to whom I had introduced her, were. I could only conclude that Holmes's antipathy towards her stemmed from his dislike of women who wore extremely low-cut dresses. As I mentioned before, my friend was indeed a queer fellow.

Anyway, I trusted Mary and I did not begrudge her this little trip in the slightest even if I had to pay for it with my own money. I had hoped I would be able to spend them on horses but my sweet wife, using her feminine charms, eventually convinced me otherwise.

Therefore, a day after her departure I decided to visit Sherlock Holmes and see wether he needed a trusty assistant in his current investigational affairs. If he did, there would no doubt be money from it as his clientele tended towards filthy rich. Holmes once told me that this was due to the fact that excessive wealth rotted one's moral spine.

I wanted to be sure I would be at Holmes's side to prevent him from deciding, as was sometimes his wont, that money was the root of all evil and from accepting payment in form of a cod and a bag of undercooked chips, as was also sometimes his wont. Mrs Hudson had certainly enough trouble with the detective and his unusual clients without being paid for the rooms with a fried dead fish.

'How bona to vada your dolly old eek again, my friend,' I cried upon entering the humble abode that, until my marriage, I had shared with Holmes.

That great man sniggered a little at the wording of my greeting. I brushed up on my sailor's slang for I knew it would please Holmes, reminding him of a particularly profitable and adventurous few weeks that we spent together squeezed in a tight spot, watching the sometimes educational but mostly unsavoury dealings taking place in the docks of London. I hoped the profitable – one hundred pounds to be precise – part of those weeks was impressed upon Holmes's memory as strongly as it was upon mine.

Holmes did not look up from what I assumed to be his latest experiment in chemistry but waved me into an arm-chair.

'Sit down, Watson,' he presently spoke. 'I see that your wife has left—' I thought at this point I heard him mutter "pity it's not permanent" but I could not be entirely certain. '—and that you are in need of money.'

'By Jove, Holmes,' I began enthusiastically. 'You are right,' I concluded in a more subdued tone. Because although my friend's reasoning processes always stirred something deep inside me that left me breathless (or, as we speak in medical jargon, they sort of tickled those funny tubes in my throat and chest), they also uncovered every ulterior motive I might have had. Like now.

'Of course I am right, my dear fellow,' he finally turned around and favoured me with his usual imperious, though not unkind, look.

'Cigar, cigarette or just plain old shag?' he asked practically.

I nearly fell off the arm-chair I was sitting in, I was so astonished by this display of good manners directed towards my humble person.

'Yes well,' I was momentarily distracted by the last offer but I fancy I recovered quickly enough. 'Cigar, please.'

'They are in the toast rack. Brandy?'

'Yes, thank you,' I smiled warmly.

'MRS HUDSON!' yelled Holmes, causing me to wince and the windowpanes to rattle alarmingly.

Sherlock Holmes despite many years of smoking and inhaling strange chemical substances had an admirably strong pair of lungs.

I was about to correct Holmes that I wanted brandy, not Mrs Hudson, when I heard loud thumps on the stairs and then the good woman stood in the door.

'Oh, Doctor!' she cried upon noticing me and before I had any chance to speak I found myself in a hearty and potentially suffocating embrace of our housekeeper.

'Doctor Watson,' she sobbed in what I suppose was pure joy. 'It's so nice of you to visit. I was beginning to think I would never have a day off in my life again. You know,' she looked earnestly into my eyes and continued in hushed tones, 'how mentally unorthodox Mr Holmes is. I was afraid to leave him completely alone. What if he did something to himself or to the furniture?'

Mrs Hudson seemed decidedly more concerned about the latter. Apparently she was still unaware of Holmes's addition to the drawing room's décor. Namely that bullet-pocked section of one of the walls which, admittedly, had been hidden behind a strategically placed Queen Victoria's portrait.

At the time my friend insisted on one of his Greek tapestries instead of the "boring old" portrait but I thought some of his clients might be frightened by it. By the tapestry, I mean, not the portrait, although the painting was done by a rising young impressionist and it did make one a little cross-eyed when one looked at it for too long. And by some of his clients I mean most. Namely those who did not appreciate being faced with two-dimensionally rendered moral gymnastics.

Holmes looked at me oddly when I voiced my objections but in the end he agreed on hanging the Queen.

Now Holmes was scowling at Mrs Hudson while I patted her gently, and hopefully comfortingly, on the back until she regained her equilibrium.

'Mrs Hudson,' the detective finally spoke, 'could you please stop drenching Watson's shirt and pour the man a glass of brandy?'

'Oh, of course, Mr Holmes.' She handed me the drink and left.

'Holmes,' I sent my friend a disapproving look, 'this is no way to talk to that poor woman.'

I did not say it out loud but I considered her practically a saint if she was able to put up with such a behaviour on a daily basis.

'What?' Holmes frowned. 'I did say "please"'.

I had no answer to that.

'Well,' I was unwilling to let go of the subject just yet. 'Couldn't _you_ give me the brandy? Why call for Mrs Hudson to come up all the way here?'

'She likes it,' Holmes answered assuredly.

I decided to let the matter drop.

'So, what brings you, Doctor, to my doorstep?' Holmes sat in an easy chair and lit his disputative pipe. 'Other than the fact that your wife is gone for a few days and you hope to get involved in one of my cases and earn a few pounds.'

I tried not to squirm uncomfortably under the detective's sharp gaze. I failed.

'Well, I shall not deny that this last consideration did enter my mind at one point but I gave it no merit. I really just wanted to see you, old chap.' I smiled in what I hoped to be a winsome manner.

'Hum,' my friend looked rather puzzled. 'You see me. Now what?'

'Uh, any interesting cases recently?'

Sherlock Holmes's face lit up like a proverbial lamp when one turns on the gas.

'Yes. And if you would like to assist me when I solve the mystery, and in the course demonstrate my incredible feats of deduction, I shall be glad to have you. By my side.'

'Really?' I was touched.

'Really. Although I have to warn you that the matter in which I am currently involved is not particularly lucrative. But,' he added cocking an eyebrow at me, 'it is certainly an interesting one.'

I flushed, slightly ashamed of my erstwhile motivation. Erstwhile because I no longer cared about it; the moment the word "interesting" passed Holmes's thin lips I felt the old thrill and anticipation that so often accompanied my involvement in the detective's line of work. Over the years I had come to the conclusion that nothing can quite beat the time spent on chasing the often armed criminal element, especially if the chasing was conducted during moonless and rainy nights.

I found the marital life to be somewhat lacking in that respect.

'I shall be delighted to help you in any way I can,' I cried earnestly.

Sherlock Holmes cast an approving look in my general direction and puffed on his pipe.

'You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?' he asked finally.

I could not say I did.

'He was the only friend I made during the two years that I was at college. Other chaps didn't really like me, you know. I have no idea why. All I ever did was reading their minds, pointing out flaws in their thinking processes and getting better grades than any of them. Most peculiar.' He quieted for a moment. 'Anyway, I got to know Trevor through the accident of him freezing on to my ankle one morning.'

'I beg your pardon?' I asked in some confusion. Was that a euphemism for something I'd rather not picture, or what?

'He bit my ankle as I went down to chapel,' Holmes clarified although I must admit that all his explanation did was to confuse me even more. I said as much.

'One morning Trevor bowled me over, bit my ankle and then said something about some bet. I don't exactly know because I whacked him over the head with the umbrella I conveniently carried and his words were a little muffled. We became very good friends after that.'

'Oh,' I managed. Truthfully I did not know what else to say.

'The point is,' Holmes continued, 'that Trevor invited me down to his father's place at Donnithorpe for a month of the long vacation.'

'That was very nice of him,' I remarked.

'Yes, I suppose so. But what I'm trying to say is that it was there that I first became privy to the details of strange and horrible case of Bermuda Triangle.'

'In Norfolk?' I asked puzzled.

'Yes,' the detective confirmed. 'I knew it would perk you up for the details are sensational enough to appeal to your reading public. You still write those little stories for The Strand, am I right?'

'Well, yes.'

'Ha! I knew it. My deductions were correct. Again.' He smiled gleefully.

'Yes, yes, of course,' I hastened to praise my friend. 'But Bermuda Triangle in Norfolk?' I simply could not recover from such an outlandish idea.

'Oh, you know what I mean,' Holmes waved his hand impatiently. 'Ships sailing into the thickest fog one has ever seen and going "urk urk" and then "poof". Much like Trevor's father upon mistakenly consuming gunpowder instead of his tea one afternoon.'

'What?' That must have been quite an experience.

'Due to traumatic nature of that incident, young Trevor is now planting tea somewhere in Terai. I hear that he is doing well.

'We have no way of knowing where fate may lead us, Watson.' Sherlock Holmes ended philosophically.

'Indeed,' I said and gulped down the rest of my brandy.

Thus fortified I ventured to ask, 'Is the story you've told me in any way related to your new investigation?'

Holmes sat for some time, gazing pensively in the flames flickering in the room's sturdy fireplace. The fires cast a merry orange glow on Holmes's face, giving his complexion a merry orange colour – a healthy and direct contrast to his usually waxen pallor. I thought Holmes could also use a bit of fattening up but as I was about to suggest it, he spoke.

'Yes.'

I assumed it was the answer to my verbal question and not to my musings.

'Are we going to visit Donnithorpe?' I probed further.

'No.'

Nothing more seemed to be forthcoming so I decided to subtly change the subject.

'May I stay the night?'

I was in no mood to return to my empty home and I longed to once again immerse myself in the familiar if slightly smelly atmosphere of 221B Baker Street.

And I had no money for a cab.

'By all means, Watson. I hope you won't mind sleeping on the sofa? After you vacated your room I set up a small laboratory in there.'

'Oh?' I was slightly hurt.

'Well, you get to play with your new wife, I get to play with my test tubes.' Holmes explained patiently.

'Fair enough,' I agreed and settled down for the night.

The next day Sherlock Holmes seemed to be in a more comunicative mood and over an honest Scottish breakfast, prepared by the incomparable Mrs Hudson, he divulged his plan.

'We are leaving for Norfolk today.'

'But you said we wouldn't go to Donnithorpe,' I remembered.

'And we shan't. Nevertheless, our or at least my presence is required at the crime scene.'

'What crime?' I asked eagerly though I hoped the description wouldn't involve too many grisly details. I hated to have my apetite ruined first thing in the morning.

'The Norfolk Bermuda Triangle has struck again,' Holmes announced, dramatically plunging his spoon into a soft-boiled egg in front of him. 'There has been another disappearance. A ship with all its crew on board sailed into the fog and was never seen again. Never being a week now,' he added, tapping his chin.

'I was called upon to investigate the matter,' he continued after a while, 'when the only witness – a scruffy old sailor named John Matthews – died the morning after the incident. His last words: "the sink siaahhhhhh..." prompted a rather hysterical reaction in the local police, who consequently turned to me for help.'

'Those seemed very unusual words for an uneducated man,' I ventured.

'Yes, I thought that too.' Holmes lapsed into silence. Then he appeared to emerge from his own inner world for he sprang energetically from his chair, crying, 'Come, Watson. The game is afoot!' and rushed out of the door.

I grabbed the rest of my kipper, two toasts and still half-full pot of tea, my hat and coat, Holmes's coat and his deerstalker and soon we found ourselves in a cab, carrying us towards Paddington.

We boarded a train heading in the general direction of the English coast. During our journey Holmes amused himself observing our fellow passengers and making socially awkward deductions out loud. Fortunately this time we were only given unfavourable looks and a slipper. I still cannot understand the significance of the latter, although Holmes said it was perfectly obvious. Well, to me it was perfect poppycock but I did not see the point of debating it further.

Immediately after we arrived at the seaside town in which Holmes was supposed to conduct his investigation, we set forth for the local police station. Once there, we were greeted by one inspector, two sergeants and three scrawny dogs.

'Ah, Barnaby,' Holmes smiled affably at one sixth of the welcoming committee and extended his hand towards the Inspector.

'Mr Holmes,' Inspector took the offered limb and shook it with reverence. Apparently Holmes's fame reached even this distant part of our country.

Then the man turned his head in my direction.

'This is Watson,' Holmes introduced me. 'You don't have to pay attention to him but please refrain from accidentally stepping on the good Doctor. He's very valuable.'

I was quite moved by my friend's concern over my well-being.

The Inspector nodded, the sergeants scribbled something in their notebooks and the dogs yawned. The introductions thus completed, we could proceed to more interesting things.

'Now, let us proceed to more interesting things,' said Holmes, accurately reading my thoughts. 'Where is Matthews's body?'

'In the mortuary. This way, gentlemen.' Inspector Barnaby led us to a building across the police station. 'We knew you would want to take a look at him so no one touched the body too much.'

'Very clever,' Holmes said approvingly. 'See, Watson? That's the spirit the London police department should be employing. Instead, they always rush the funerals. I remember there was this one incident when they tried to bury a murder victim although she was still alive.'

'Doesn't the term "murder victim" sort of imply the victim in question has been murdered? As in, to death?' I asked, genuinely interested in the peculiar terminology.

'Usually yes,' my friend replied, 'but in that case the victim was completely oblivious to the murderer's efforts, rendering them quite futile.'

'That's most remerkable,' Barnaby said with interest. 'You were able to catch the blackguard, though?'

'Of course,' Holmes scoffed. 'The man, who was in fact a serial killer and already had many deaths on his conscience, became so frustrated by his inability to kill that last victim that he went to prison on his own free will.

'There wasn't much for me to do then,' Holmes frowned. 'I only had to present him with a very demotivating speech and point out his many failings as a human being, which wasn't difficult.' He shrugged, 'Quite a boring case.'

We reached the mortuary and Holmes immediately descended upon the corpse. He squinted closely at it, sniffed, poked, picked the ex-sailor's nose and peered into the ears. Inspector Barnaby and I merely stood and looked on the proceedings – the Inspector hastily making notes – but I objected forcefully when Holmes attempted to look into my own ears and nose. I felt such liberties should stay limited to the privacy of our rooms.

Finally Holmes straightened and with a self-satisfied air declared, 'Well, isn't it a quaint little affair.'

'If I may ask, Mr Holmes, what have you found?' Barnaby looked up from his notes.

'You may but it wouldn't be very nice of me to tell you, would it now? It has been often said to me—' here Holmes glanced in my direction '—that people enjoy solving puzzles on their own. I am giving you a chance, my good man, no need to thank me.' And he strode out.

I cast an apologetic look at the irritated Inspector and hurried after my friend. As glad as I was to finally see Holmes following my advice I could not help but wish he chose other time to do so. This was yet another lesson that sooner or later the advice one gives to Sherlock Holmes will return to bite one in his posterior. It was also a lesson I forgot every time I spotted an opportunity to lecture Holmes – a habit I still find difficult to shed, I confess.

'So, tell me, Holmes, what have you found?' I hoped I would have better luck than the poor Inspector.

The detective smiled, 'If you had been quite as close to the body as I, you'd have been able to smell something rather familiar.'

'Whatever could that be?' I wondered.

'I'm not telling,' Holmes was grinning a touch maniacally. I would have been worried if it had not been for the fact that it was a long time indeed since I saw Holmes this happy over a case. Besides, I firmly believed in the principle that everyone was entitled to have some fun in their life.

'Where are we going now?' I asked after we passed a pleasantly looking inn, where the food and drink were probably being prepared and served to a weary traveller. A traveller that was decidedly not me.

'To the docks, Watson. To the docks!' Holmes crowed happily and skipped up the path. Life was so unfair.

My forlorn reflections of a distinctly culinary nature stopped, however, when we reached our destination. The docks looked rather normal and possessed the same homely squalor that was so characteristic of the docks of London. Holmes and I felt quite at home.

We ambled along the shore, Holmes occasionally bending to examine a pebble or a medusa. We also chanced upon a dead fish which my friend carefully tucked into a pocket of his overcoat. Seeing my inquiring and, I imagine, somewhat disgusted expression Holmes announced that we were going to need it later. I hoped he didn't plan to make the fish our dinner.

'Right, Watson,' Holmes spoke again after another hour or so elapsed. 'I think there's nothing more to see here. We can go back.'

'Shouldn't we rent rooms for the night?' I asked remembering the friendly inn we passed earlier.

'Whatever for, my dear boy?' Holmes raised his eyebrows. 'The case is simple enough and hardly warrants a stay longer than one day. Besides, I fancy this night we shall be too busy to sleep.'

It was my turn to raise eyebrows.

'As soon as it gets dark we need to return to this exact spot,' he indicated one of the docks. 'I think we will solve our little mystery tonight. Come, Watson, let us find the good Inspector and entice him into buying us a dinner. This sea breeze has certainly whet my apetite.'

I was overjoyed to hear it and all but dragged the detective back to the police station. Inspector Barnaby proved to be an accomodating fellow and soon Holmes and I were dining on the fruits of the Inspector's hospitality and his inability to say "no" to Holmes's enticing skills.

Afterwards I took advantage of the time I had until this evening when my presence would be required, to take a nap. Holmes meanwhile gathered the equipment we would need tonight, namely a piece of twine and a pair of handcuffs. Then he procured a violin and began playing a soothing French rendition of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik which, as I thought of it later, turned out to be quite an omen.

Then the evening drew near and it was time for us to once again make the journey to the docks. Upon arriving we found ourselves a comfortable place between a pile of wooden boxes and a grimy brick wall and waited.

'What are we waiting for?' I finally asked half an hour later.

'You no doubt observed this thick fog hanging over the water, right ahead of us,' Holmes pointed to the distance. There was indeed a foggy cloud.

'I fancy it will feature quite prominently in tonight's events.'

'How so?'

'You'll see. Ah, here we have our bird. Now, be quiet, Watson, and watch.'

So I watched and saw two men standing on the pier, discussing something in hushed tones. Then one of them, younger and shorter, walked away while the other stayed, his gaze intent upon the sea and the cloud of fog still hanging omniously. He had his back towards the place where Holmes and I were hiding and so he neither saw nor heard when my friend tiptoed to him, took out the fish he had pocketed earlier and using the twine he brought, with a few quick movements, tied the fish to the man's face.

Having incapacitated the fellow, Holmes lowered him to the planks of the pier and gestured for me to come closer.

'See, Watson,' he whispered, 'I told you we would need the fish.'

'Yes, I remember,' I answered distractedly, staring at the befished man. Then I suddenly understood.

'You used it instead of chloroform!' I was amazed by Holmes's ingenuity and brilliance anew.

'Precisely,' Holmes's smile was full of pride. 'Now all we have to do is catch the other one. Come, help me with this.'

Mindful of not dislodging the fish, we dragged the unconscious man out of sight and waited for his accomplice to show.

We did not have to wait long. When he appeared about ten minutes later, Holmes and I sprang from our hiding place and after a brief struggle I tackled the young man to the ground and Holmes triumphantly snapped the handcuffs on his wrists.

'Now, what have you to say, Mary?' Holmes asked the figure at his feet in his most menacing tone.

Mary? – what an unusual name for a chap, I thought.

'You have me, Holmes,' the lying man replied in a voice I was sure I had heard somewhere before.

He turned towards us. It must have been a trick of the light I thought as I looked at his face but that face seemed instantly and intimately familiar. Then the realisation hit me and I cried with ill-concealed terror, 'Mary?!!!'

'Sorry, James,' said my dear wife, obviously forgetting my name again. 'I never wanted this deception to come between us. Oh well...' she shrugged.

I thought I might faint but I continued valiantly, 'What... what are you doing here?'

'I don't think Mrs Watson – or should I say Ms Marie La Boufette – is going to answer that.' Holmes smiled nastily. 'Or perhaps you will? No? Well, then let me explain it to the good Doctor.'

'You see, Watson, your darling wife is a spy.'

I gasped.

'A French spy, to be precise.'

I nearly cried in anguish. What actually came out of my throat was probably more like a whimper.

'Working for people who abduct our true and honest English ships.'

'But how?' I recovered enough to ask.

'They have been using a natural phenomenon that can be found in this area, namely that cloud of fog. When a ship sails into it, these villains lift it out of the water using a giant hot air balloon and transport it to France. The balloon is invisible because of the fog.

'Your wife was responsible for ascertaining which ship would be abducted as some of them possessed a new technology or carried unique and advanced equipment. When the ships were deposited on French ground, the crew were put to work in truffle mines and the ship was taken apart. And that is the infamous Norfolk Bermuda Triangle.'

I was shocked.

I watched numbly as Holmes manhandled the woman up and with a malicious glint in his grey eyes leaned in and said, 'You have made a serious mistake choosing Watson as your cover.'

Mary looked at my fiend insolently and smirked, 'You know what they say, Holmes, it's always darkest under the lamp.'

'They also say "wot kakaja żizn parchata"/1/ but that is of no import now. What is important and what you should have kept in mind is that no one messes with my toys without consequences,' he hissed.

I was not sure I wanted to ponder the significance of Holmes's, somewhat possessive, I felt, statement. Then I decided that I really didn't.

'Come, woman. I fancy the Inspector will be extremely glad to see you.'

Holmes roughly dragged Mary by the shoulder. I wanted to protest against such a callous and brutal treatment but Holmes spoke again, 'Don't pity her, Watson. Remember that she only used you for her own nefarious purposes.'

'Mary?' I tentatively asked, not quite believing Holmes's words.

She sighed heavily, 'Yeah, he's right. I quite liked our rumpy pumpy, though,' she winked at me. Holmes scowled. And I saw her for what she really was: amoral and evil French spy. Admittedly, a pretty one but I would not be swayed by that for the second time.

I grabbed her by the other shoulder. 'Let's go, Holmes.'

At the police station Holmes elaborated on his explanation adding that the French hot air balloon – Sinkable Siren – was named after the first English ship that had really sunk in that area.

'Serves them right for having such a stupid name,' he concluded unsympathetically.

'And what about Matthews?' Inspector Barnaby, who for having been woken up at three in the morning managed the alert & ready look surprisingly well, asked.

'He died of natural causes: a heart attack after seeing the balloon. His last words were in fact to mean "sinkable siren" but the chap fell over before he could enunciate them properly. As I sniffed him, however, I could smell a faint trace of perfume that as far as I remembered Mary Watson wore. I smelt it on Watson himself many times before.

'I also found out that Matthews had dirty ears and as a hobby picked his nose. He did not care for his personal hygiene and therefore the perfume could not belong to him but had been rubbed off of somebody else.'

And so the case was closed, Holmes received a standing ovation for his outstanding work and in the morning we returned to London.

I sold the house in which Mary and I had lived and eagerly moved in with my friend again.

I had to sleep on the sofa for the first few nights until Holmes moved his laboratory downstairs but in his defence I must say he did it swiftly and with little fuss. He even offered me his bed instead of sofa but I did not want to impose. Besides, Holmes was a restless sleeper and I did not relish the thought of being woken up by his elbow in my face or his knee in my... well, never mind.

Thus my life returned to the one I knew so well before my marriage, with the added benefit of me having a lot more money now. And as I dozed off in my arm-chair in front of the fireplace, listening to Holmes's familiar voice as he criticised my writing skills again, I thought that all's well that ends well and this adventure ended very well indeed.

The End

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/1/ – 3/4 Russian, 1/4 Polish; roughly translated means "what a shitty life". 


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